


interesting times

by Kemmasandi



Series: Crescendo [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Double Penetration, Fingering, Oral Sex, Other, Sticky Sex, Threesome, Trine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adventures in the Prime's berth, Round One.</p>
            </blockquote>





	interesting times

**Author's Note:**

> Just some OT3 porn, written late one night because I reallyreally wanted to.

 

* * *

_it's a complicated hand that you've been dealing  
time to win me over, fold and make your move_

* * *

__INTERESTING TIMES_ _

Optimus wriggled back against Megatron’s chest, smokestacks scraping against shoulder spines. “I am willing to try,” he said, smiling—it could have been a smirk, but even with the smug arousal pouring from his field in waves his faceplates seemed incapable of anything but innocence. “I trust you both with my life, and certainly with my ability to walk straight in the morning.”

“Despite the fact that we regularly abuse that trust,” Megatron rumbled, tracing a playful claw around the external mesh of the Prime’s valve. Ratchet was looking a little left out, his optics locked on Optimus’ array; Megatron decided to take pity on him and drew his hand back a little, slipping his fingers between the heated mesh folds and pressing them apart so that the medic could see their lover’s valve clench down, spilling lubricant.

“Oh, I count on it,” Optimus purred, his legs sliding further apart. “I want you both in me. First your fingers, then your spikes. Can we do that, Ratchet?”

The medic gave them a considering look. “Treated with respect, valves are more forgiving than most mechs might think. Given your size and the regular use your valve mechanisms get, I don’t believe it will be a problem.”

“Forget the morning,” Megatron promised, his voice dropping into a deep, rich growl. “You will not be walking straight for a full orn.”

Optimus tilted his helm back, far enough that he could kiss the edge of Megatron’s jaw. “I will hold you to that, then. What will be your forfeit should you fail?”

“Oh, I think first-in-the-washrack privileges ought to suffice,” Ratchet put in, grinning wickedly. He swept his hands down Optimus’ thighs, tracing his thumbs along the inner transformation seam, and back up again, hooking them around his knees and arranging Optimus’ legs on either side of his own while Megatron played with the Prime’s dripping valve. “Megatron, I think we need to invest in some extra equipment. He’s far too lippy for someone spread out all pretty on his back like that. We need something to take the edge off his mind so he can truly appreciate the time he spends with us.”

Megatron grunted, rubbing his thumb along the recessed dimple that housed Optimus’ anterior node cluster. The Prime lifted his hips into the touch, his optics, banked and smouldering, flitting between the two of them. “Bars, something to tie him open. I want him with his legs spread, ready to take me whenever I please. No penetrative toys – his valve is _ours._ ” He punctuated the words with a hard press of his palm down over the soaking valve array, and was rewarded with a soft moan, Optimus’ optics shuttering as his lips parted, helm falling back against Megatron’s shoulder.

Ratchet gave him a conspiratorial look. “I want a charge damper,” he said frankly, sitting back on his heels and watching with blazing optics. “I want it in him while he’s on his on-shift, so that when he comes back to our quarters he’s ready to beg for our spikes. Hmm – I think he wants you. Look at him.”

Optimus had his optics cracked open, light flaring out through the shutters, near-white with need. His lips were a flat line, defiantly closed, but his back arched and his valve pulsed against Megatron’s fingers, pouring wet electric heat.

“I think he does,” Megatron agreed, clawtips circling his valve rim. His spike thudded against its cover, straining to pressurise, but it was a discomfort he could easily ignore.

“Give him your fingers,” Ratchet suggested, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Slow—make it last. If we are to prepare him adequately, we will need patience.”

“I have said this before, but I do like the way you think.” Megatron stroked Optimus’ outer folds, brushing his mouth over the tip of one elegant audial. The Prime shuddered, autonomics trying to force his legs closed, but Ratchet caught his thighs and pushed them apart further, quick digits toying with the tension cables behind his knees.

He took his sweet time about it, brushing the backs of his claws over the sensitive rim and rubbing the anterior cluster as he carefully pressed the tip of one claw into Optimus. The digit’s sharp cutting edge, made to tear through armour and rend sheet metal, made fingering a risky business. However, that was its own attraction, and Megatron had had a lot of practice at it over the vorns. His movements were precise and measured, and the mesh lining pulsed and twitched around his digit, calipers cycling down, trying to draw him deeper.

He slid the second in beside it, and Optimus made a sharp cry as the clawtips fetched up against a tactile node cluster deep inside him. Megatron drew his digits out a little way, rocking them smoothly back in to the third knuckle. He repeated the motion, and grinned a sharp, feral grin as Optimus’ body bowed against him, their Prime’s lust dripping wet down his palm.

Optimus clutched his arms, holding tight to them like a lifeline. “Primus,” he gasped, rocking his hips up into Megatron’s thrusts. “Need you—need you both, please—“

Ratchet’s servo at last joined Megatron’s, fingertips tracing Optimus’ entrance where it was stretched around Megatron’s digits. “You two are too slagging hot,” he growled, shifting closer. “I’m going to overheat before I’m ever in you.”

“If you're worried about that, try having flight engines,” Megatron suggested conversationally. His were roaring, their deep thundering bass layering over the lighter, less heavy-duty engines of the two grounders. It wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out their voices, but still enough to be glad that the Prime’s quarters were soundproofed.

He had half a mind to test how _well_.

“Oh no, I do just as well with my grounder engine,” Ratchet demurred, stroking Optimus' wheel wells. “I’m older than both of you put together; it’s only to be expected.”

Between them, Optimus overloaded on Megatron’s lap.

Ratchet’s lips quirked, his digits fondling Optimus’ external folds. His optics focused on the valve entrance as it tightened convulsively around Megaton. As the sparks died away and it began to relax, he slipped the tips of two fingers in past the external ring. The passage was made easy with overload, the wet heat inside Optimus heady and inviting. His fingers were not as long as Megatron’s, nor as thick, and soon he added a third, flexing them apart inside. Megatron did the same, moving in and out at a slow, even pace. Greased with overload, Optimus’ valve stretched willingly.

Ratchet hummed, his optics narrowing in consideration. “Stop there,” he commanded, pulling his digits free. “I want to try something.”

There were two people in his life whose orders Megatron had followed without question: his former owner, once upon a time, and Optimus. In that moment Ratchet became the third.

The medic’s intentions became clear almost immediately. Megatron brought his soaked claws up to Optimus’ mouth and gently pushed them between the Prime’s lips as Ratchet hunkered down between those silver thighs. Optimus opened his mouth and took his digits in almost eagerly, moaning around them as Ratchet buried his face at the apex of his thighs.

Ratchet had a talented glossa, and Megatron didn’t really need imagination to help him guess what the medic was doing when past experience served just as well. He pinned Optimus’ hips down, his engine turning over in an aroused rumble as the Prime writhed against him. Legs trembled, pedes skidded across the floor as Optimus tried to find purchase against the steel, leverage to grind his valve up against Ratchet’s mouth. His optics opened wide and his vocaliser crackled in a static whine, his servos creeping to Ratchet’s helm and holding him there as he tumbled into a second overload, screaming out the medic’s name.

Ratchet scarcely gave him a klik to recover, lifting his helm and groping for Megatron’s servo. “Don’t let him go cold,” he said, licking lubricants from his lips. “In, now.”

Four of his digits slipped in alongside three of Megatron’s, filling Optimus obscenely. Wet heat around the digits on both servos made Megatron’s optics narrow, his spike cover beginning to slide aside despite the lock he’d had on it since their little session began.

Ratchet snickered at him. “Not long now.”

“Good,” Optimus gasped, making a heroic effort to rein in his control as Megatron managed to fit a fourth digit inside him. “Waiting has its own charm, but— _Primus_ —to be frank I can’t stand it anymore.” He rocked down over them, his helm clunking back against Megatron’s shoulder, crying out as his valve spasmed around them.

“Well then,” Megatron rumbled, “we had better not keep you waiting any longer.”

Ratchet pulled out, sitting back on his haunches and watching with an odd smile as Megatron adjusted Optimus’ position on his lap. He sent the command to open his array panel and almost before it had snicked back his spike was pressurised, the head rubbing against the inside of Optimus’ thigh.

“Try kneeling, Optimus,” Ratchet suggested, optics bright. “At least at first – it might be easier for us to figure out where to put ourselves.”

“For you, perhaps.” Megatron frowned, and drew his knees up, forcing Optimus’ legs wider. His spike slipped over the Prime’s external array, hot lubricant dripping down its length. Every circuit in his frame was humming, alight with potential – processor queues stalled, struck by waves of raw, basic need as Optimus canted his hips and his valve opened up around Megatron’s spike, wet heat and electricity sinking down onto him.

He recovered a little of his wits and stopped halfway, beckoning to Ratchet. The medic, considerably smaller than either of them, slid fingertips around the place where they were joined, and then pressed them in alongside Megatron’s spike.

Optimus gasped and arched backwards against Megatron’s chassis, rocking down harder. It was a tight stretch, but there was give in the mechanisms. Hopefully it would be enough.

Ratchet moved in close, chassis pressing up against Optimus’. His fingers pulled out, and then there was a smooth metallic sound almost lost under the noise of their three engines, before the blunt pressure of a second spike fetched up against them. Deft fingers eased it into Optimus, the pressure enough to make them grit their dentae and clutch each other close, Optimus between them a shuddering, tightly-wound mess of choked cries and ragged EM field. Ratchet’s spike slid home, the feeling of it up against Megatron’s desperately odd, totally unfamiliar and yet not unwelcomed. Optimus’ valve twitched, unable to cycle open and further and equally incapable of tightening.

Ratchet had the best leverage; as Optimus began to plead for them to move he set the pace. Not much more than a clumsy roll of hips; neither Megatron nor Ratchet were capable of anything more, and certainly not Optimus himself, who wrapped his arms around Ratchet’s shoulders and held on for dear life, his vocaliser spilling sobbed exhortations, prayers and very un-Primelike curses alike.

They lasted for a pitifully short time. Ratchet came first, silent through his overload, and the flood of sudden hot fluid and electricity sent Megatron over the edge in turn. He shouted an oath to the Thirteen and gave one last sharp thrust up into Optimus, who went ramrod-stiff for a moment and then keened, his frame locking up and his valve flooding with electric bliss, the keen turning into a wail and cutting off abruptly as he tumbled offline.

Megatron caught him, taking his weight as Ratchet slipped out of Optimus and fell backwards. He lay on his back, optics shuttered, spike depressurising, too exhausted to sort out the confused tangle of their legs or even turn onto his side, off his back kibble. Optimus slumped forward, ending up in a strutless drape on his front beside Ratchet.

Spike slipping free of Optimus’ valve, Megatron gave them a tired squint. He leaned forward and settled on Optimus’ other side, wrapping one arm around the unconscious Prime. In the nanoklik before his processor blanked out, he felt Ratchet do the same.


End file.
